


Of Birds and Feathers and Foregone Conclusions

by RiddleRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, First Time, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Slash, Wingfic, all the good stuff happens while Sam isn't around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleRose/pseuds/RiddleRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can see Castiel's wings.  Cas can see Dean's soul.  Dean's soul and Cas' wings <i> really</i> like each other.  When they get back from Heaven Castiel needs some lovin' and Dean offers to help.  And really, that was never going to stay innocent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Birds and Feathers and Foregone Conclusions

Dean has been able to see Castiel’s wings from the very beginning. The first time they bring Cas out in public he spares a moment to wonder how Castiel keeps anyone from commenting. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that maybe the reason no one comments is simply that no one else can see.

The wings are a source of great frustration to Dean most of the time. For one thing they are enormous. They fill up the space behind Cas like two huge shadows, and make it look like he is standing before some kind of throne any time he stands still. For another thing, they seem to just ignore the normal laws of space and physics. They pass through anything in their way, up to and including people. When Cas rides in the back of the Impala Dean can see the wings poking through the roof. It… actually looks kind of cool, like his baby can fly, but he’s worried about what it might be doing to the frame.

Cas doesn’t fly like a bird, he flies like an angel, through several more dimensions than the usual three. After a little while Dean learns to see the powerful flex and whoosh of insubstantial feathers whenever Cas zaps himself somewhere. He has to be quick because when Cas flies he goes fast. Dean only gets a split second to appreciate the wings at their full spread.

On good days Dean admits that the wings aren’t so much a source of frustration as they are of fascination. They express a far greater range of emotions than Castiel’s face, which only ever gets truly animated when he is beyond furious. His wings puff up and loom when someone is threatening Dean, go sleek and aerodynamic when he is fighting, hunch up uncomfortably when he is following orders he doesn’t like, and frame his body majestically when he feels he has done something holy. 

On the day Castiel looks at the ceiling and says, “You son of a bitch. I believed in…” with his back to Dean his wings shake and shake for hours afterward. His face is tight and controlled, his shoulders only a little slumped, but his wings droop and tremble. Dean is exhausted from his trip through Heaven, more than a little disturbed by the fact that he has apparently been there before, and peripherally weirded out about Ash. He is furious at Joshua for refusing to help, furious at God for being a spineless bastard, and fucking incensed enough at Zachariah to tear all four of his faces off, lion or no lion. And frankly, who thought that design was a good idea anyway? God must have had a really weird sense of humour when he created that one.

None of this stops him from wanting to calm Cas’ wings down. He knows Sam can’t see them, but something must tip him off that Dean wants to talk to Cas privately, because he says, “I’m going out. Clear my head,” and stalks to the door of the motel room. Maybe he’s just pissed.

“Get something to eat,” says Dean, mostly out of habit. Sam raises a hand in half-hearted acknowledgment and leaves.

Cas is still standing in the corner of the room looking at nothing. Dean has never seen his wings so low before. Usually he holds them up so that the long ends of his primaries don’t touch the floor, but now they are trailing down right out of sight. He wonders briefly if it’s uncomfortable.

“Cas,” he says, “you okay man?” It’s so, so lame that he almost cringes. 

“Fine,” says Cas, voice clipped.

Dean bites the bullet, “You’re shaking.”

Cas frowns minutely, “No I’m not.”

Dean shakes his head, “Yes you are. Your wings.”

Cas jerks his head and wings up at the same time, eyes going wide, “What?”

It’s Dean’s turn to frown, “Your wings?” he says, “They’re shaking like a… I don’t know, I just thought –“

“You can see my wings?” Castiel interrupts.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I always could, I thought you knew.”

“No.” Cas’ eyes are still wide.

“Oh.” Dean thinks of all the times when Castiel has stretched out a wing and wrapped it around Dean’s shoulders, the times he has stroked intangible feathers over Dean’s arms, and one time he touched just the tips of his primaries to the handprint on his shoulder, like a reminder. “Oh.”

Castiel is clearly remembering these things as well, “I must apologize Dean,” he says eventually, “I should have been more decorous.” 

“Dude, whatever,” says Dean, “I think your wings are cool.” They’re also still shaking, he can’t help but notice. Cas nods, but before he can say anything Dean blurts out, “Can I touch them?”

He meant to say something else, something like, ‘tell me what’s wrong aside from your Father being a giant douche,’ or even, ‘can I do anything to help, like shave Zachariah’s mane off so he’s bald on all four heads,’ but his traitor mouth decided otherwise. He freezes. Then – 

“Yes. _Please_.” Castiel’s voice is even rougher than usual and the expression on his face is the closest Dean has ever seen him to tears. He looks away and walks forward to sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping forward. His wings lift and shiver and then suddenly they’re not going through the floor anymore, they’re draping awkwardly across the mattress, and one of them is reaching toward Dean.

He’s a little freaked out. Castiel doesn’t say please very often, and never in that tone of voice. But this might be the only chance he’ll ever get to touch Castiel’s wings, and who knows, maybe this is something angel friends normally do. 

At first touch Castiel’s wings shiver and he lets out a little breath not quite strong enough to be a gasp. Dean keeps his fingertips light on the top of the wing, where the long, sleek primaries give way to smaller coverts. The feathers don’t feel exactly like feathers. Dean gets a sense of great durability. They seem stronger than all the feathers he has felt before, which, admittedly, is not many. They are also huge, the longest primary is longer than his forearm, and even the little coverts at the top of Cas’ wing near the joint are almost as big as his palm. 

Dean rescued a little songbird once when it flew in the open window of the Impala. It had been smaller than his fist, and when he finally managed to wrap his hand around it to get it outside he could feel it panting in fear, its tiny heart beating so fast it felt like it might burst. When it flew away it left a flurry of tiny, downy feathers behind.

Castiel’s wings don’t appear to have those downy feathers, or if they do they are completely covered. They are glossy black all over, with iridescent blue and green tints where the light hits them. They look like scythes, or knives, something sharp and dangerous. Even now, flopped out on the bed and drooping in dejection, shaking with whatever grief or anger God’s refusal to help has engendered in Castiel, they still look deadly. 

Dean strokes a hand along the smooth outer curve of Castiel’s right wing. It arches into his hand and he can feel the shudders still wracking the muscles beneath the feathers. “You sure this is okay?” he asks.

“It is a comfort,” Castiel replies after a tiny pause, “It is customary in Heaven for members of a garrison to groom each other after a battle, or training.” He pauses again, “I have not belonged to a garrison for some time now. I am not… trusted among the other angels.”

Dean can read between the lines well enough to know loneliness when he hears it. He makes a sudden decision and sits on the bed behind Cas, buries his fingers in the scapular feathers at the base of his wings, and says, “You ever need someone to groom your wings you come to me, you hear?” 

Castiel makes an aborted nod and stretches his wings up and back so they tower on either side of Dean. He drags his fingers down through the scapulars, ruffling them and then smoothing them down again, massaging the thick band of muscle that connects to Cas’ back. He realizes with a start that Cas is shirtless, though most of his back is covered by feathers. Must be nice, he thinks wryly, to just be able to mojo your clothes away like that.

Dean’s mind drifts as he examines Castiel’s wings with his hands. He notices when they finally stop shaking though. Cas seems to be holding himself upright by main force of will at this point. He’s so relaxed that Dean would think he had fallen asleep sitting up if it weren’t for the fact that Cas is a freak and never sleeps, and that his wings are rubbing up into Dean’s hands like a pleased cat. Castiel is practically purring. Who knew.

“Cas, you wanna lie down?” Dean asks, “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

For answer Castiel sort of slumps over sideways, gets his left wing out of the way by virtue of making it insubstantial for a moment, then ends up half sitting, half lying on the pillows at the head of the bed, his wings splayed out on either side of him and already curling back toward Dean. His eyes are half-closed, his hands neatly folded across his waist. Dean grins and gathers one huge wing into his arms, trying to reach as much of it at once as he can. The feathers on the inside of Cas’ wing are softer than the ones on the outside. He digs his fingers into the marginal coverts and Cas shivers all over. Dean freezes, “You okay?”

Cas sounds a little blurry as he replies, “Yes Dean. The inside of my wings is… more sensitive than the outside.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Dean strokes his fingers though the secondary coverts and Castiel sighs.

“We use our wings as shields in battle,” he mumbles, “the outside and the striking edge are very strong. The inside is more intimate, and much softer.”

Dean isn’t sure he’s even aware of what his wings are doing now. One has curled around Dean like a cloak, pulling him closer and covering him in dark feathers. The other is flexing minutely in his lap and arms, trying to make contact with as much of him as possible. His brain trips a little on the word ‘intimate’ and then he makes another split second decision and extricates himself enough to pull off his own shirt. He’s pretty sure they’ve crossed some kind of bizarre line at this point but he’s also pretty sure that he doesn’t give a fuck. Cas’ eyes are closed now but he practically moans when he realizes that there is so much more skin for him to touch. Dean grins a little as he’s practically smothered in eager feathers, and he takes his time smoothing them all down, leaning into them and letting them tickle across his skin.

Another few quiet minutes pass and Dean’s hands slow. He’s been mostly acting on instinct up to now, but as Castiel’s wings pull him a little closer he has to wonder what they’d look like from outside. Two shirtless men on a bed, one of them clearly receiving some kind of pleasure from the other… and then he shakes himself. Cas is an _angel_ , not a man exactly, and if Dean is honest with himself – and apparently today is the day for epiphanies – he hasn’t cared about whether Cas was a man or a woman for a long time. 

With this in mind, he leans his cheek against one wing and keeps going.

***

When Dean offered to groom his wings Castiel was so pathetically grateful it nearly overwhelmed him. No one has touched his wings except in battle for over a year, and he can feel the lack. In the garrison he had his brothers and sisters to comfort him as he comforted them. After his return from Hell, when his wings had been singed black with the effort, everyone had wanted to touch them. It was a badge of honour, of great success. He was not the only angel with Hell-blackened wings, but he was one of the few. Not many souls got a personal escort out.

When Dean touches his wings with hesitant hands it is all Castiel can do to keep from whimpering. Even though his primaries are not very sensitive he can feel the heat of Dean’s soul through his palms and it soaks into his shaking wings like a balm. He can see any human’s soul if he concentrates, but he can see Dean’s all the time. It glows like a coal in the center of his chest, burns like swampfire behind his eyes, and coats his hands in golden honey. 

Dean’s soul likes Castiel, which is one reason he rarely takes too much offense at Dean’s sometimes harsh words. Even at his angriest and most afraid his soul gleams like a beacon. It never goes bright and hard-edged like it does when Dean is fighting something, it stays welcoming. When he stands close to Dean it reaches out glowing tendrils and wraps them around Castiel’s Grace, filling him with warmth. 

Castiel knows that Dean is not aware of his soul’s actions, but he hadn’t realized that Dean can see his wings until he said so. He is almost embarrassed at first, remembering all the times he has stretched a wing out to protect Dean, or simply to derive a little comfort from the heat of Dean’s soul. Dean doesn’t seem to mind though.

Castiel does his best not to arch into Dean’s touch like a wanton, but it is very hard. As Dean becomes more confident in his task his hands get surer and his soul leaves glowing trails behind them. When Dean suggests lying down Castiel practically collapses on the bed and can’t stop himself from trying to gather Dean closer. Instead, Dean bundles one wing into his arms and strokes his fingers through the feathers on the inside of his wing. Even his vessel shivers at that, and he barely restrains a groan. 

Castiel loses a little time somewhere as his mind blurs with pleasure, but he notices when there is suddenly a new expanse of skin and it takes an effort of will to stop himself from pulling Dean down flat on top of him. Instead he tries to touch him with every feather all at once, which Dean, somehow, allows, even though he must be practically drowning in wings at this point. He stretches out his arms and digs his fingers in, and Castiel memorizes every scar and freckle he can find. 

This is probably inappropriate, he realizes belatedly. Dean has made no secret of his preference for women, and he cannot know that when angels groom each other’s wings they usually keep to the less sensitive outside. He is about to tell Dean this when Dean hesitates, then seems to make a decision. He leans his head against Castiel’s wing, nuzzling his cheek into soft feathers, and his soul suddenly blazes into golden life, twining through feathers and filling him with heat.

He can’t stop the groan this time, but Dean doesn’t pull away, and it occurs to Castiel that his soul pulses brighter where the wings touch him.

***

When Castiel groans Dean discovers, somewhat to his surprise, that he’s getting hard. They’re definitely in non-platonic territory now, and have been for a while, but it hasn’t really been sexual. Or at least, that’s what he thought. His dick and Cas both seem to have other ideas though.

He doesn’t have to think about it much before his brain makes another spontaneous decision and he’s suddenly kissing down the concave curve of Cas’ wing. He realizes that he’s actually had sex with an angel before, although Anna was human at the time, and he wonders how it’ll be different with wings involved. Better, he decides almost immediately, as Cas arches up with a gasp and his wings slam down around Dean, making him sprawl across his bare chest. Dean sometimes forgets how strong Cas is, but this is definitely not one of those times. Cas has him by the hips and Dean is pretty sure he’ll have bruises there the next day, which is way more hot than he ever thought it could be. He can’t move, but that’s okay, because he doesn’t want to. Cas is panting against his neck, and Dean squirms a little so that he can reach Cas’ mouth.

Cas moans into their first kiss and then moans again when Dean manages to get hold of his wing near the shoulder and pull. This is definitely better than Anna. He refuses to think about how much of that is simply because it’s Cas. He’ll deal with the implications of that later. He has an angel to attend to.

***

Sam gets back to the room an hour or two later and finds his brother and Castiel both fast asleep on one bed. He rolls his eyes and puts the food in the minifridge. Took them long enough, he thinks, then goes to find his laptop. As he passes the bed he notices that there are little black scorch marks all over the sheets and floor. He crouches down to examine one and finds that it is shaped perfectly like a small, downy feather. 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, Jon Snow. 
> 
> I hate titles and can't write smut, so here, have a non-porny story that wanted to be porn _so bad_ but couldn't quite make it...


End file.
